Chambers
by Spinesless
Summary: Moriarty's obsession drives him to kidnap Sherlock.
1. situation

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. Warning for violence and language and general darkness of this fic. Rating will probably go up.**

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><p>It's completely dark in the room, I'm talking thick-as-pitch––tar, actually. They don't really use pitch anymore, do they?<p>

The blackness is sliced by a single blade of white, harsh light. It's startlingly bright, especially against all the darkness. But he can't see it, not yet, anyway. He's still asleep. Well, sleep is too kind of a word; he's unconscious. Chained to a chair in the middle of that cylinder of light, his head lolls against his chest. The splatter of red is almost glowing against his porcelain skin, it looks like fluorescent paint.

My fingers itch and I want to touch him. I want to trace the hollows of his cheekbones, I want to feel his neck and collar bone and run my fingers through his blood-caked hair. I almost do. I almost run to the center of the room while he's still gone and do with him as I please, feel his pulse flutter under my skin.

I don't, of course. I do have _some _self control.

A twinge of annoyance-not-concern, he's been out for a while. I mean it's not like I gave him anything _too_ bad, and I thought he was more resistant, anyway. Maybe I gave him too much.

Seb says I get overzealous sometimes.

Seb doesn't like this. He says it's too dangerous, we might get caught. I tell him he needs to live on the edge, take a few risks. Seb flicks the ashes off his cigarette.

I think he's just jealous.

I tell him he can join in, but I don't mean it.

He just gets this look on his face and sulks off to clean his gun or whatever.

I'm just about to go check if he's still breathing when he comes to with shuddering breath. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

He's retching now, not very pretty, no sir. He gasps and gags and vomits all over the floor, oh, what a _mess_.

He coughs and clears his throat and slumps forward, panting. It's a good thing I didn't duct tape his pretty little lips, or I'm sure he would have choked. Would have been a _very_ unattractive corpse.

I have him absolutely _terrified. _He picks his head up, looking around wildly, but oh, there's nothing to see but the black strip across your eyes. He inhales and gags again and tries to regain himself. I can almost see the gears turning in that fragile skull of his as his thinks.

This is bliss. Watching him like this. He is at my mercy and for once, I can observe unobstructed.

_How does it feel to be scrutinized, Sherlock_? To be probed and picked at like a piece of meat, like a _thing_, not a person.

The metal chair scrapes a few centimeters across the floor, he tries to get traction. The tendons on his neck are metal cables and I want to reach through the glass and tear them out. Weave them into a rope and bind his hands, weave them into a cord and fit them with jewels.

"_Hello?" _he calls out, voice all rasps and sharp corners. "_What do you want_?"

I shudder.

"_Who are you_?"

I think you know the answer to that one, Sherlock.

Maybe he doesn't, though. He probably thinks that, no, I wouldn't, it's too risky, like Seb thought, but that's the one thing I've got on both of them.

It's fine, though. He'll come to the conclusion eventually.

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><p>The sweat-sheen on his chest gleams under the light, but goosebumps cover his upper arm. It's a few hours later, now. He hasn't said much, probably waiting for his snatchers to make the first move.<p>

Yeah. Right.

Seb is at my side. His arms are folded across his chest and the lines on his face spell out his entire thoughts. _This is him_? they say. _This is the guy?_

Oh, come off it, Seb; we can't all look picture-perfect strapped to a chair surrounded by our own stomach contents.

I nod to him and he flips a few switches in an aluminum box.

Shouts fill the air.

"_Sherlock?_'

"John?" Oh, god in heaven. His voice is a choked gasp of disbelief and pure, unadulterated _horror._

"_Sherlock!"_

_"John!"_

"Sherlock––" the line cuts but he's still wailing _John, John! _ like a child lost at the mall.

Thank you, John Watson, for letting me steal your voice.

"_What do you want?" _he shouts. "_Let John go!"_ Desperation creeps into his voice. I didn't expect him to crack this soon.

Disappointing, really.

Seb watches in silence, my Knight of Many Words. After Sherlock quiets down, he turns to me, an eyebrow arched, waiting for orders.

He watches as I blow on the glass in front of us, tracing a heart in the fog. He frowns, head tilted to the side.

I nod.

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><p>He doesn't scream. Surprisingly pleased. This means we'll get to have fun for longer.<p>

He's not broken yet.

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><p>Seb comes back with news. They're looking for him. Good, I think, it's been long enough.<p>

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><p>He knocked his chair over, today. Something within him must have been broken, invigorating, with <em>that<em> burst of energy.

It doesn't do much good; my Seb is like a boy scout with those knots, but he does manages to drag down the blindfold.

When he's unconscious I send my Knight out to right him. It's risky. He doesn't wake up.

I'm all for risks.

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><p>He's boring, lately. He's tugged a bit at his restraints, tragically confused at how he managed to get in an upright position. Amusing, really, to see the great Sherlock Holmes so completely lost.<p>

The need to touch him becomes unbearable. I need to feel him break under my fingers.

I can't take it anymore.

I find myself leaving the observation room from where I have watched him so many hours these last three days––or has it been four?

I open the door, and he opens his eyes. _Bingo_.

But he cannot see me, of course. I stand, fleeting, just beyond the circle of light. But he knows I'm there. He wriggles against his chair, eyes narrow. He does not open his mouth. He does not call out. Not yet.

This staring contest is boring.

Finally, "What do you want from me."

His voice is a low growl.

His question makes me want to laugh, to double over until tears streak down my face and I cease to breathe.

Instead my face shatters with a grin and I step into the edge of the halo. His cracked crystal eyes widen and his fear is my absolute _rapture_.

"I want _you_, Sherlock_. _

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><p><strong>AN: Just my sick little Moriarty/Sherlock kink, ha. I dunno if I should continue this. Feedback is appreciated.**

**Thank you for reading.**


	2. deal

**Disclaimer/Warning: I do not own BBC Sherlock. Rating for language, violence, sexual themes. Should probably be M; thoughts?**

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><p>His eyes are wide, just barely frosted over with his recent incapacities. "What do you mean?"<p>

God in heaven, _he doesn't get it_. A laugh bubbles up from my throat but stop that at once, Jim, that is not professional in the slightest. I clear my throat and grin grin grin and he just stares back because he's so fucking _stupid_.

"I want _you!_" I bellow. "_God_, Sherlock, what is so hard to understand?"

He _must_ know what I'm getting at. Surely.

He just stares back, shaking his head ever so slightly, in what? Disbelief? Ignorance?

Oh, dear Lord, give me strength.

"I want you, Sherlock." My arms reach out of their own accord and my voice is just barely audible. "Is _that_ so hard to understand?

Have you never been wanted before?"

I can practically see Seb behind the two way mirror, lighting up. Maybe he's turning away at this point, or maybe he's sticking it out a little longer watching less-than-keenly. Jealous bastard.

"It's your lucky day."

The world spins.

From behind my sleeve I withdraw a needle like a magician and his fake cards. Sherlock jerks out of the way but his time in here has dampened his reflexes. The needle hits its mark against his corded neck and I slam the plunger home.

He sags, but he's conscious. Of course he's conscious. What fun would it be otherwise?

I shrug off my blazer and roll up my sleeves; this might get a little messy.

The switchblade on my belt was a gift. It's a very handsome blade, very sharp and well used. It feels familiar against my palm as I trace it's edge.

With a flick, Sebastian's beautifully tied constraints are a pile of rope against the concrete floor. Sherlock pitches forward, but I keep him in place. His blue-green-gray eyes trace that path of the blade, watching it with intent fear as it draws closer and closer.

I'm behind him now, he's still firmly in my grasp and I can finally _touch _him.

He smells like three-day-old rotten basement and sweat, his hair just lightly brushed with musk and cigarette smoke.

The tip of the blade traces circles on his chest. I press just barely hard enough of draw blood.

We have a deal.

"_Scream for me, Sherlock."_

I shove the chair forward and he falls into a crumpled heap onto the floor and my hands are all over him, feel the ridged surface of his chest, the area between his shoulder blades, the divots of his collarbone. My fingers wrap themselves around his neck, squeezing tightertightertighter but no I mustn't kill him, _yet_, so I release him and he lies there, panting slightly, eyes wide.

I tear off his remaining clothing and bend over him and _smile smile smile_.

I let my tongue travel over where my fingers brushed just moments ago, blood still dripping lightly, but he doesn't _talk_, he barely even grunts, so I let my blade go a few millimeters deeper but still nothing so here I am on my feet, kicking him once twice thrice and _finally_ does he gasp and wheeze and it's not a scream, but it'll have to do.

I pick up the water bottle I carried in and loosen the cap, letting it's contents drip into his agape lips and he drinks it like it's gold, because it is.

The cap pops off and the stream shoots into his face, oh well, so much for that.

He's kind of like a fish out of water and I laugh at the mental image.

I leave him on the floor and traipse back to Seb, who's lighting up another cigarette.

"Impressive," he allows.

I sigh. "He got blood on my shoes."

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><p><strong>AN: I have decided to update at the urging of a lightly threatening review. Thank you for reading, feedback is much appreciated.**


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